Eine Geschichte von Nacht und Zeit
by Kaite1211
Summary: A time-traveling boy with an inexplicable knowledge of the Viking era. A one-of-a-kind dragon with a fearsome reputation that goes before it. Alone, they are lost souls wandering the world. Together—they might just be enough to stop a powerful force with an intent to destroy human-kind. (semi-modern AU; time travel)


Chapter I—Break In

My leaf-green eyes flicked to the clock, hanging on the wall behind my mother, before quickly returning back to my plate. It wasn't like anyone was going to notice though, my parents were too preoccupied with their conversation to even take note of any signs of anxiety I was exhibiting.

I would have liked to have said that I was a master at subtlety, able to sneak a glance at the time before patiently playing the facade of a goody-two-shoes and checking the time again about ten minutes later. That, of course, would have been an utter lie. If I was being truthful, I was anything but subtle, with such behaviors as bouncing my knee, running a scrawny, spindle-like hand through my already unruly hair, or my eyes moving towards the clock so often, that they appeared to be twitching.

It wasn't like anyone knew that I felt more comfortable in the shadows—away from attention, and practically invisible.

I quietly sighed to myself before finishing the last morsels of food on my plate, leaving only faint traces to indicate what might have been there before.

"May I be excused?"

I managed to ask as politely as I could, refusing to make eye contact with the adults at the table. I schooled my features into that of being calm, drowsy even, and veiled my anxiety behind a want of going to bed.

They both turned from their conversation to face me, but it was Mother who spoke, "Of course, dear."

I almost expected her to continue, as I was sure that she was aware that I wanted to go to bed for the night as well, but she returned to her conversation with Father instead.

Sometimes, I wondered if her care was just a façade.

Mother was a thin, older woman who had sharp, strict features, and long locks of strawberry blonde hair, often constrained by a bun as rigid as her external appearance; her powder blue eyes, however, were like gentle pools of water lit by moonlight. Her voice was like honey. Her personality was as gentle as her eyes, and it was almost like she didn't have a mean bone in her body. When she regarded me, however, she seemed to lack the parental love that I had read about—she treated me more like a guest than a son.

Father wasn't much better. He was a shorter man who was more of the rounded sort, and had a thinning mop of mousey-brown hair. His eyes were more of a golden-like hazel, with rings of dark amber along the outer edge of his irises; his voice was akin to the gentle rumble of a purring lion. He treated me the same way as Mother.

Over the course of my life, I've always had a thirst for knowledge, a want to know more. My mind was always filled with ideas for new inventions, and in my spare time, I would find myself on the internet watching videos of metalwork if I wasn't teaching myself a language or looking up cultures from the past.

Of course, they would provide the funds so that I could delve deeper into my interests, and for that I was thankful… but I would willingly give all of that up if I could have the parental relationship that I had craved for so long.

There was no true way in which I could determine the source of our relationship, or lack thereof, as I didn't know their thoughts. I could only speculate.

My speculations led me to deduce that it was because I was adopted.

I had my suspicions throughout the years, as I had no common traits with them in any shape or form, but I was able to confirm it to be fact when I had overheard enough conversations and later confronted them about it.

From what I knew, no one had any idea of where I came from, or who my parents were.

I had appeared out of nowhere—found by a fishing boat in the North Sea, with no memory, and strange clothes. I only responded to the Icelandic pronunciation of the word "Hiccup." When I had been taken in as a part of Germany's foster program, I was renamed, although I still used "Hiccup" as a nickname, and was adopted by an affluent couple with whom I had stayed with for the following twelve years… or so I'd been told.

I had a feeling that there was something crucial missing, but I was never able to place my finger on what, exactly, so I never mentioned it. I had learned long ago that if an adult didn't say something, they had their reasons for doing so, and if confronted, they would evade the topic.

I contemplated this as I cleared my table setting, placing my dishes in the dishwasher, and putting away the utensils I didn't use.

Their behavior made sense, of course, as there was always the possibility that my actual parents could find me, and try to reclaim me—using this logic, it made perfect sense that they didn't want to get too attached to me. The only flaw was the uncertainty of my appearance. I had no history, no information that could be used to trace me, as I practically had a new identity. I was sure there were many boys in Germany that held an appearance similar to my own, making it nigh impossible to locate me based off of physical attributes alone.

…Perhaps that wasn't actually the case, but it was a reason that at least helped _me_ deal with the emotional pain their behavior caused.

My nightly activities, however, were enough to keep my mind occupied, allowing me to ignore the situation in preference of planning.

It took me a moment to realize that I had completed my intended task before I swung by the table again.

"Entschuldigung," I waited to continue until they turned to face me, "Guten nacht."

"Guten nacht;" They echoed in reply, "Good night."

I quickly made my way back to my room, and pulled the sheets over my clothes as I climbed into bed.

To the casual observer, I appeared to be asleep, but in truth, I was patiently waiting for the rest of the flat's occupants to fall into the realm of sleep.

After a few hours, I was rewarded for my patience through the distinct sound of Father's snoring; he was always the last to fall asleep.

Slowly, I got out of bed, and slipped on a pair of comfortable sneakers, before creeping out of my room.

The flat was as dark as my room, and a brief glance at the glowing, dim light of a digital clock told me that it was about 1. I quickly made made my way to the closet, and paused before the mirror next to it. Faint moonlight had managed to filter through the windows on the opposite side of the flat, providing enough lighting to get a glimpse of the reflection within.

As I gazed into the mirror, a gangly, 15-year-old looked back. His short, auburn hair was unruly, messy even, but it almost seemed like it was styled to be that way; his eyes flashed with a keen, intelligent glimmer in the dim lighting. His torso was covered by a loose, faded green t-shirt, and his jeans, despite the frayed bottom cuffs, appeared to be well taken care of.

For a brief second, I saw myself in a slightly different set of clothes, made out of fur and wool, and for that moment, the world felt like it had been wronged without me knowing, only for it to be suddenly right.

I shook my head to dispel the image, and looked away, shrugging on a brown, insulated vest before exiting the flat.

The outskirts of Köln were quiet at this time of night, but even so, the streets were lit by artificial light. It was no surprise, really, as it was the last day of school before six weeks of summer break. Anyone who would be making a commotion at this time of night would be in the city center, either in a park, or wandering the streets.

I kept my head down as I reached the closest train station, thankful that the train had arrived when I had.

I got on the U-Bahn without a word, and chose a seat by the door. When the doors had closed, and the train shuddered into motion, my hand swiftly flitted to a pocket in my vest before returning to a relaxed position on my lap.

No longer was I the law-abiding Hiccup that thrived in the day. I had become a nameless, underground scholar who was known among the police for my record of trespassing into buildings.

oOo

I stood beside the Kölner-Dom, at the top of the stairs, as I gazed at the rest of the plaza below, absorbing my surroundings. Beyond, I could make out the Rhein, and the opposing river bank.

I loved Köln.

I had lived in the aged city for a good portion of my life, and even now, I couldn't shake off the awe that it inspired within me. Some of the cobblestone streets were obviously old, with large gaps between the stones that had been worn smooth from time, and shined with a dull, gray sheen. It had been occupied at least since it had been a part of the Roman Empire.

I mentally shook my head to dispel my musings. I had a building to break into, after all.

I turned my back toward the plaza below, and made my way to the other side of the old church, pausing to spare a glance as the Römisch-Germanisches Museum before continuing on my way.

As enthralling as I found that museum to be, it wasn't tonight's target.

I briefly made my way through the winding streets, and turned into a narrow, dark alleyway. Around the middle, on the left, was a simple, black metal door. I stopped before it to observe the type of lock, and the corners of my lips lifted into a small, lopsided smile.

It was too easy.

My long, nimble fingers reached their way into the pocket of my vest to pull out a few bobby pins, and swiftly worked at the lock, and unlocked it within seconds.

As quickly as they were out, they were slipped back into my pocket before I silently creeped through the door, and into the building.

When the door closed behind me, I was plunged into darkness.

A normal person would have whipped out a flashlight, but I simply stood where I was, and waited until my eyes properly adjusted to the low level of lighting. I had all night to scope out this place, and I wasn't in a hurry.

I had found out over the years that burglar alarms didn't go off unless I had tried to touch something, or if I had attempted to break in through the front of the building. The back door was usually left unguarded except for a traditional lock.

I took in a deep breath as I continued to wait, savoring the scent of aged wood, smoke, and chemical preservatives. If I closed my eyes, I could almost envision myself in another location…

No, my head had to be clear for this.

Ten minutes had passed before I cautiously took a step forward, as my eyes detected a path through the piles of artifacts.

Within five, I was among exhibits in the main museum.

The Viking Museum was a new addition to Köln's small collection of museums, and I had been anxious to check it out. Despite my love for history, for some reason, I was more interested in studying Viking culture. Sometimes, I even found myself correcting some of the information I've read about them with tidbits of knowledge I never knew I had.

The weird thing was, I _knew_ that knowledge came from distant memories; memories I couldn't recall. Every time I tried, they would flow through my grasp like smoke.

I often ignored the puzzle that lay beyond my inexplicable knowledge of Viking culture, but whenever I _did_ try to think about it, I only got more confused. I usually ended up pushing the topic aside for later consideration… and forgotten about until another tidbit presented itself.

I pushed my thoughts aside in favor of observing as much of the artifacts and exhibits as I could, knowing that when school started, I would be distracted with preparations for the arbitur.

The low lighting of the museum almost seemed to make the exhibits come alive, as I could almost hear the clashing of blades, and the murmur of voices long gone, speaking in a tongue lost to time.

I took my time as I walked by the weapons, shields, worn by time and use, imagining how they could have looked when they were newly forged. Now, they were nothing more than rusted shells of their former appearance, with some parts having been decomposed, or lost—either destroyed, separate, or not yet discovered.

I meandered my way through the carvings of precious metals, and found myself by the the exhibit that showed the standard lifestyle of a Viking.

In the middle of it all, was a life-size model.

For some reason, it looked familiar, oddly familiar, but I ignored the whispered warnings my body was sending me as I read the informational plaque.

Apparently, the model's design was based off of the genetic make-up of the remains of a Viking that resided in the North Sea.

When I looked up, my breath was taken away by how realistic it appeared.

If I looked hard enough, I could have even fooled myself into thinking that it was breathing.

Its leaf-green eyes seemed to be calculating battle strategies as its mouth curved up in a cocky smirk. Lush locks of auburn hair fluttered at a length just a bit longer than my own. Its height was a startling 180 cm, encased in scaled, leather armor, and had a helmet tucked under an arm. If I could have guessed the age, I would have assumed that the model was that of a twenty-five or thirty-year-old.

I crept closer, stopping when I was practically stepping on the model's toes, as my fingers ghosted over the figure—not quite touching, but not quite away either.

I knew those eyes, and I could recognize that unruly mop of auburn hair anywhere, despite the fact that both were artificial. I knew those features as well as I knew my own appearance.

I froze as I came to a startling conclusion, my fingers hovering above the model's heart, and quickly recoiled as if I had been burned.

I backed away, my hands grasping my head as I trembled like a leaf in the wind.

A blinding migraine wracked through my mind, and I stubbled before quickly righting myself.

I had to get out of there.

I pivoted on my heel, and attempted to bolt through the winding walkways of the museum, towards the back entrance, but I was only able to take a few steps before my legs collapsed beneath me as a wave of weakness overcame me.

In the process of falling, I knocked over one of the displays, a viking helmet, and swore under my breath as the burglar alarm began to go off.

When I tried to push myself back up, my arms shook with effort, but another wave of weakness sucked any remaining energy that I had, causing my torso to flop onto the waxed, tiled flooring with a dull thud.

And suddenly, the world became black…

When the police reported to the triggered alarm, they would find the museum untouched, and not a display out of place. The security cameras would show nothing, their pixilation too low to reveal a knowing gleam in the eyes of a certain life-sized model of an auburn-haired Viking.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So my original plan was to start posting chapters after I finished writing all of them, but I decided just to post this one as a little sampler of what's to come. I haven't found any other HTTYD fanfictions with a similar plot, but I hope that you like you've read thus far :) On another note, all of the locations in this chapter are actual places in Cologne (with the Viking museum and Hiccup's apartment being the only exceptions as they were added only for the sake of the plot). Thank you for reading, ****and please review!**

**Translations:**

**Eine Geschichte von Nacht und Zeit—A Tale of Night and Time**

**Entschuldigung—Excuse me/Pardon**

**Guten nacht—Good night**

**Köln—Cologne (a city in northern Germany)**

**Römisch-Germanisches—Roman-Germanic**

**Arbitur—A german national assessment that is taken to determine the collage a scholar attends**


End file.
